


Attention In Court

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-11
Updated: 2006-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inappropriate reflections on a night that shouldn't have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attention In Court

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything you recognise from the books (or films). It all belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved.   
> Pairings: Lucius/Hermione, implied Blaise/Hermione.  
> A/N: This tale is very much AU and not canon-compliant. It mentions a seventh year with a Leaving Ball and Voldemort still on the loose.   
> Warnings: Angst. Implied sexual situations. Hermione is of age at the time (only just).

Is it just her imagination, or is he watching her across the room?

He _is_, isn't he?

She can almost feel it, his stormy grey gaze. It's wordlessly willing her to turn towards him. It's silently daring her to steal a glance in his direction.

She assures herself she's stronger than that, and then she goes on to prove her point. She concentrates on the chairman's words, she reaches for her quill, and she takes notes in the same way she does everything else: diligently and with conviction.

No pardon will be granted here today, of that she is quite certain. Some things the world cannot forgive, no matter how much remorse is shown. Not that he's shown even an inkling of it thus far, but that's scarcely the point.

But remorse, she thinks, is a topic she knows a thing or two about.

She'll never tell anyone what happened. She's too proud, even now, and she's too ashamed, still.

It was the night of the Leaving Ball. He was there, too, in his capacity as a member of the school board, fully reinstated and supposedly redeemed.

Of course, a mere month later he'd be enjoying the hospitality of the Ministry once again, but at the time, just for a short while, it was widely believed and often talked about: Lucius Malfoy had renounced The Dark Side, turned his back on the Dark Lord for good.

She almost laughs when she reflects on how naïve they all were to trust a notorious Death Eater on his word, no questions asked, no further investigation necessary.

She also realises, however, that times were strange back then, and besides, countless others changed allegiance at the drop of a hat or the flick of a wand, so why would Malfoy Senior have been any different?

She bites her lip, she keeps writing, and she reminds herself to think about here and now, this complicated case at hand.

She finds it painfully embarrassing how the memories are so much stronger than she is, just because he's here, in the same room. Surely, he shouldn't be affecting her like this, not after all this time?

She remembers how the Leaving Ball was a grim affair to begin with.

The Dark Lord was still at large, so there was tension, extreme tension. People everywhere were trying too hard, laughing too loud, and struggling desperately to delude themselves and each other that all was well, _really_, and they were having fun, _honestly! _

Ron decided that Firewhiskey was his new best friend, even if it had him snogging Pansy Parkinson, of all people, before the night was over; Harry hung around Draco Malfoy for the entire evening and what an interesting sight they were; and Ginny and Neville returned to Gryffindor Tower early, probably to make the most of their final night at Hogwarts.

And thus, Hermione ended up all alone in a room full of couples, feeling unwanted, unnecessary and too wretched for words, and wasn't that always the way?

In the crowded courtroom, she shakes her head and reminds herself again that now is not the time to be thinking about such things. Now, she should be listening and taking notes. Now, she has a job to do, one that requires her full attention and utmost concentration.

She knows he's still watching her, and she prays no one else notices. And if they do, she can only hope they won't mention it to her later, or ask her why.

She can't control it; her mind is drifting again, and then drifting some more, all the way back to that night.

She went out for some fresh air, and to have a good cry, because that wasn't the sort of thing she was supposed to do in public. They all expected her—they all counted on her—to be much stronger than that.

She sat down on a bench, put her head in her hands and let out a deep, long-suppressed sigh.

She never heard him emerge from the shadows. She only noticed him the moment he sat down next to her, and she wondered why he would even do that, whatever possessed him to join her at all. Wasn't she a lowly Mudblood? She still was the last time she'd checked. Or had he changed his mind about that, too?

Yes, she was willing to believe them then, the tales of his supposed change of heart. Perhaps, she was as naïve as the rest of them. Perhaps, she had her own reasons for wanting to be.

It started as small talk, and it soon turned into a conversation that was both amusing and intelligent.

She can no longer recall the details, but she does remember what happened next.

She knew he was too old for her, the father of a fellow student. She was well aware of his history, too, of the heinous crimes, the outright villainy. None of it stopped her, though. None of it mattered. Not that night.

He took her by the hand, and he led her off Hogwarts grounds. He Apparated them both to a stately mansion in France. Or was it Spain? She never asked, because that didn't matter, either.

Only one thing did that night, as she eagerly followed him up to his bedroom, where he undressed her slowly and…

Hermione grits her teeth, shakes her head, and wills herself back to the present. Before her eyes, the crown witness approaches the bench. It's an elderly lady with a pronounced limp, one of Lucius Malfoy's many torture victims. At least this one's still alive to tell the tale, Hermione thinks, and shudders.

She tries hard to concentrate, to stay focused on the tearful testimony, to resist the avalanche of thoughts threatening to sweep her away. _Get a grip,_ she silently scolds herself, _this is terribly unprofessional! _

Meanwhile, he's still watching her.

She knows. She can sense him. And then, to her dismay, the persistent memories win this round, too, and it all comes flooding back...

Vivid images of a smouldering night spent in a luxurious four-poster bed; of his lips, his hands, caressing her, exploring every inch of her, making her moan, and scream, and beg for more; and how quickly she was lost, weightless, crying out his name and writhing beneath him, as he thrust in and out of her, again and again...

In the weeks that followed, she'd look back on what happened and blame it on loneliness and desperation. Sometimes, she considered blaming it on the _Imperius_ curse, too, but she knew that was utter nonsense, and it wasn't like her to tell lies, least of all to herself.

The embarrassing truth of the matter is that she wanted it, craved it and ultimately enjoyed it at least as much as he did. But does it still matter, anyhow? One night of passion, a brief surrender, that's all it was. It's of no significance now, just as it was of no real significance, then.

And she really should stop thinking about it.

"Mrs Zabini," a voice rings through the courtroom. Its tone suggests this isn't the first time the speaker has to repeat the name.

"Yes, Mister Chairman," Hermione says quickly and hopes she's not blushing.

She is, very much so.

"Does the prosecution have anything further to add?" he asks her formally.

She rises from her seat. "Nothing whatsoever, Mister Chairman," she states firmly.

"Very well," he says, before denying the requested pardon.

A few spectators clap and cheer at the verdict, and finally, she looks at him.

She has to admit he's still as attractive and appealing as he was ten years ago. She expects him to glare, or sneer, or mouth a horrible insult at her.

Instead, he gives a saccharine smile, and it chills her to the bone.

Because when she meets those grey eyes for the first time in such long time, not only do they tell her he remembers, they also reveal that he knows...

He _knows_ she will never forget.


End file.
